Five minutes' interview and that's all the inconvenience. Paris,
Sunday
XXVI. TO GEORGE SAND
Monday night
You are sad, poor friend and dear master; it was you of whom I
thought on learning of Duveyrier's death. Since you loved him, I am
sorry for you. That loss is added to others. How we keep these dead
souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his
necropolis.
I am entirely UNDONE since your departure; it seems to me as if I
had not seen you for ten years. My one subject of conversation with
my mother is you, everyone here loves you. Under what star were you
born, pray, to unite in your person such diverse qualities, so
numerous and so rare?
I don't know what sort of feeling I have for you, but I have a
particular tenderness for you, and one I have never felt for anyone,
up to now. We understood each other, didn't we, that was good.
I especially missed you last evening at ten o'clock. There was a
fire at my wood-seller's. The sky was rose color and the Seine the
color of gooseberry sirup. I worked at the engine for three hours
and I came home as worn out as the Turk with the giraffe.
A newspaper in Rouen, le Nouvelliste, told of your visit to Rouen,
so that Saturday after leaving you I met several bourgeois indignant
at me for not exhibiting you. The best thing was said to me by a
former sub-prefect: "Ah! if we had known that she was here ... we
would have ... we would have ..." he hunted five minutes for the
word; "we would have smiled for her." That would have been very
little, would it not?
To "love you more" is hard for me--but I embrace you tenderly. Your
letter of this morning, so melancholy, reached the BOTTOM of my
heart. We separated at the moment when many things were on the point
of coming to our lips. All the doors between us two are not yet
open. You inspire me with a great respect and I do not dare to
question you.
XXVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset
Paris, 13 November, 1866 Night from Tuesday to Wednesday
I have not yet read my play. I have still something to do over.
Nothing pressing. Bouilhet's play goes admirably well, and they told
me that my little friend Cadol's [Footnote: Edward Cadol, a dramatic
author and a friend of Maurice Sand.] play would come next. And, for
nothing in the world, do I want to step on the body of that child.
That puts me quite a distance off and does not annoy me--NOR INJURE
ME AT ALL. What style! Luckily I am not writing for Buloz.
I saw your friend last evening in the foyer at the Odeon. I shook
hands with him. He had a happy look. And then I talked with
Duquesnel about the fairy play. He wants very much to know it. You
have only to present yourself when ever you wish to busy yourself
with it. You will be received with open arms.
Mario Proth will give me tomorrow or next day the exact date on the
transformation of the journal. Tomorrow I shall go out and buy your
dear mother's shoes. Next week I am going to Palaiseau and I shall
hunt up my book on faience. If I forget anything, remind me of it.
I have been ill for two days. I am cured. Your letter does my heart
good. I shall answer all the questions quite nicely, as you have
answered mine. One is happy, don't you think so, to be able to
relate one's whole life? It is much less complicated than the
bourgeois think, and the mysteries that one can reveal to a friend
are always the contrary of what indifferent ones suppose.
I was very happy that week with you: no care, a good nesting-place a
lovely country, affectionate hearts and your beautiful and frank
face which has a somewhat paternal air. Age has nothing to do with
it. One feels in you the protection of infinite goodness, and one
evening when you called your mother "MY DAUGHTER," two tears came in
my eyes. It was hard to go away, but I hindered your work, and
then,--and then,--a malady of my old age is, not being able to keep
still. I am afraid of getting too attached and of wearying others.
The old ought to be extremely discreet. From a distance I can tell
you how much I love you without the fear of repetition. You are one
of the RARE BEINGS remaining impressionable, sincere, loving art,
not corrupted by ambition, not drunk with success. In short you will
always be twenty-five years of age because of all sorts of ideas
which have become old-fashioned according to the senile young men of
today. With them, I think it is decidedly a pose, but it is so
stupid! If it is a weakness, it is still worse. They are MEN OF
LETTERS and not MEN. Good luck to the novel! It is exquisite; but
oddly enough there is one entire side of you which does not betray
itself in what you do, something that you probably are ignorant of.
That will come later, I am sure of it.
I embrace you tenderly, and your mother too, and the charming niece!
[Footnote: Madame Caroline Commanville.] Ah! I forgot, I saw Couture
this evening; he told me that in order to be nice to you, he would
make your portrait in crayon like mine for whatever price you wish
to arrange. You see I am a good commissioner, use me.
XXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
16 November, 1866
Thanks, dear friend of my heart, for all the trouble that I gave you
with my Berrichon Despruneaux. They are friends from the old
country, a whole adorable family of fine people, fathers, children,
wives, nephews, all in the close circle at Nohant. He must have been
MOVED at seeing you. He looked forward to it, all personal interest
aside. And I who am not practical, forgot to tell you that the
judgment would not be given for a fortnight. That in consequence any
preceding within the next two weeks would be extremely useful. If he
gains his suit relative to the constructions at Yport, he will
settle there and I shall realize the plan formed long since of going
every year to his house; he has a delicious wife and they have loved
me a long time. You then are threatened with seeing me often
scratching at your gate in passing, giving you a kiss on the
forehead, crying courage for your labor and running on. I am still
awaiting our information on the journal. It seems that it is a
little difficult to be exact for '42. I have asked for the most
scrupulous exactitude.
For two days I have been taking out to walk my Cascaret, [Footnote:
Francis Laur.] the little engineer of whom I told you. He has become
very good looking, the ladies lift their lorgnons at him, and it
depends only on him to attain the dignity of a negro "giraffier,"
but he loves, he is engaged, he has four years to wait, to work to
make himself a position, and he has made a vow. You would tell him
that he is stupid, I preach to him, on the contrary, my old
troubadour doctrine.
Morality aside, I don't think that the children of this day have
sufficient force to manage at the same time, science and
dissipation, cocottes and engagements. The proof is that nothing
comes from young Bohemia any longer. Good night, friend, work well,
sleep well. Walk a little for the love of God and of me. Tell your
judges who promised me a smile, to smile on my Berrichon.
XXIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
16 November, 1866
Don't take any further steps. Contrary to all anticipations,
Despruneaux has gained his suit during the session.
Whether you have done it or not, he is none the less grateful about
it and charges me to thank you with all his good and honest heart.
Bouilhet goes from better to better. I have just seen the directors
who are delighted.